


The God And The Thread

by belladonawritings



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dissection, Explicit Sexual Content, Mind Rape, Mindfuck, Monster porn, Needles, Other, Sewing, Sexual Violence, Snuff, Training, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 17:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belladonawritings/pseuds/belladonawritings
Summary: Gods are terrifying. But after months and months in their grip, listening to its whims, hearing out its paranoid and beautiful fantasies, terror doesn’t have much hold anymore. It’s a panic response, after all. It’s not meant for long-term, day upon day upon night upon night of sustained fear.Or - you love what you used to fear, out of purpose, out of necessity.Smutty horror monstersex.





	The God And The Thread

 

                Gods are terrifying. But after months and months in their grip, listening to its whims, hearing out its paranoid and beautiful fantasies, terror doesn’t have much hold anymore. It’s a panic response, after all. It’s not meant for long-term, day upon day upon night upon night of sustained fear.

                Besides, the god has other plans.

                “What do you little things have inside you, anyway?” it asks. It locks you into the ground and stares deep into your eyes. You could look away, you tell yourself. Lying about it makes you feel like you have a choice. “Blood and bones, I’m sure. But what is it _like?_ ”

                The terror sparks up again, briefly, but you can’t keep it up anymore. Instead, you close your eyes. The god’s nails are so sharp on your neck, puncturing a little deeper with each breath you take. Then another of its hands finds your chest. Another (it has as many as it chooses, always) slips down and down, lifting the fabric of your shirt and sliding between your legs.

                “How about I put something else inside you, hmm?” it croons, then laughs at its own joke. It slips one claw inside you, sharp edges so close that you have to imagine that they’re cutting you. It hurts. Of course it hurts. But you strain _towards_ it anyway. (Terror has no more hold here.)

                “Oh, the pet likes that.” The claw around your neck tightens, meets at the back of your neck, forms a collar of chitin. Who knows what face the god is wearing now? It’s probably all eyes, watching your final humiliation through seven thousand lenses. “Let’s see how much this stupid body of yours will fit.”

                Another claw pushes its way into you, and this time you know you’re bleeding. You can feel it running down your thighs, slow and inexorable, mixed in with your own fluids.

                “Open your eyes.” It’s a command. Of course you obey. And you stare into the universes encapsulated in its infinite features.

                The third claw slides into you, and you press one of your limp hands to your stomach, where the sharp bulges are penetrating. Then they start to slide in and out, speeding up with each whimper that escapes your mouth.

                “Mm. The noises are cute. I don’t like them, though,” says the god, so noncommittally you barely hear it. Then its mouth is on yours.

                It’s not a kiss. It’s an invasion. The god’s monstrous tongue feasts on your lips for a while, then forces its way into your mouth and down your throat. You can’t help gagging on it, the helpless wet noises reaching your ears from a million years away.

                “Touch yourself for me,” the god demands from a different mouth. “Or do I have to pull on your strings?”

                You move your hand to your clit, desperately trying to make yourself cum for your master, your owner, the loyalty and the need rushing into all the empty spaces that fear left behind. Your gagging around the tongue turns into moans, then pants, then cries of pleasure mixed in with the pain.

                “Excellent,” whispers the god. Then, too soon, the tongue pulls away, as well as the claws. You’re left alone in the darkness, hovering on the edge of orgasm.

                “Cum for me, and I’ll free you,” the god promises. You push your fingers as deep as they’ll go into your aching, bleeding hole, and you do it. You cross over that edge, screaming as you do, and you hope it’s enough.

\---

                The god is methodical in taking you apart. It starts with your pretty little feet, then your thighs, portioning them like it’s running a butcher chop. It sets them apart, each to their own pile.

                You watch the whole thing with a disjointed fascination. It loves you. It loves you enough to do this for you (what is this? what happens next). It loves you. It loves you.

                It disconnects you at the pelvis, then sections your chest and arms into perfectly measured sections. Your heart and lungs it leaves, loose onto the floor, and as they slowly cease whatever functions they were made for (there was no function, no purpose, before your God), it puts its bladed finger to your neck. It keeps you awake until it gets to your spine, then finally, at last, lets you fade. You were good enough, this time.

                Then once the god’s work is done, it pulls the thread out of its lips, and threads it through the needle, and begins the task of putting you back together, just the way that you were. More or less, at least.

 


End file.
